


The Little Ones

by SunGirl



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: (or at least a lot of talking about it), Basically just a retelling of the second half of RotK from pippin's perspective, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Growing Up, Introspection, pippin-centric, with some scenes added or extended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:13:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunGirl/pseuds/SunGirl
Summary: Faramir and Pippin both knew Boromir as a mentor, a friend, a brother. Now that he is gone, they both try to honor his memory by protecting what mattered most to him; each other. A closer look at what they experience during the battle for Gondor, how their pasts shape their actions, and how those actions shape the people they become.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took, Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Pippin Took, Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter One

Only a few minutes into their first meeting, Pippin has already decided he dislikes the Steward of Gondor.

Despite knowing this is Boromir’s father, Pippin at first sees no resemblance, save for a pair of grey eyes, wilder than Boromir’s, but just as sad. He pities Denethor in that moment, sensing in him a shared sorrow, a deep mourning at the loss of a treasured son and friend. It is this that motivates him to be honest with the man, to tell the true story of Boromir’s death, and to pledge his own allegiance to Gondor.

But a moment later that connection is gone as he watches the man’s face twist in anger, accusations and demands spewing forth from him, rage only increasing at Gandalf’s attempts to council him.

It is then that Pippin sees similarity between the Steward and his elder son, sees it etched in the harsh lines of the man’s hateful expression. He saw that fury in Boromir’s face only a few times, and it always made him fear both for his friend and for Frodo. The look on Denethor’s face, the mad gleam in his eyes, mirrors that which Boromir wore when the Ring whispered it’s most desperate, insidious promises to him.

Seeing it again in the waking world makes Pippin’s blood run cold. He doesn’t want to remember that part of Boromir, the part that the Ring latched onto and twisted with it’s malice. He wants to remember his friend, his protector, his teacher. He wants to remember Boromir strong and smiling, his kindness, his courage, the warmth in his eyes when he spoke of home. He doesn’t want to wonder if the man before him is what Boromir would have become if the Ring had had more time to work on him.

Pippin almost stumbles in his hurry to follow Gandalf from the grand hall and out into the courtyard, only half listening as the wizard grumbles about Gondor’s fall from greatness. His eyes stick again on the white tree in the courtyard center. In his mind’s eye he can still see the flames licking around it, the destruction of the tree, of the city, of Boromir’s home.

“Help must come to us.” He hears Gandalf say.

Pippin stares out at the red and black skyline, at the shadow of the unnatural storm approaching from Mordor.

When he speaks, his mouth feels dry.

“But… But who? How? From where?”

Gandalf takes a deep breath and lets out a long, slow sigh.

“If luck has not deserted us completely, there is still one person in this city who has not been taken by the Steward’s madness.”

“Who?”

But Gandalf is already striding off, and Pippin has to hurry to keep up with the wizard’s longer legs.

Gandalf stops again a level down, catching the arm of a passing guard.

The man’s eyes widen as he takes in the flowing white robe and beard.

“Mithrandir?”

“Where is your Captain?” Gandalf asks urgently. “Where is Faramir?”

_Faramir._

The name stirs something in Pippin’s memory. Boromir’s face, eyes soft and smile wistful as he recalls something from a happier time.

_‘My brother…’_

“The Captain and his men are in Osgiliath, defending the garrison.” The guard explains.

Gandalf sighs, his mouth forming a thin-lipped frown.

“When will he return?”

The guard shakes his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Very well.” Gandalf says heavily, sounding disappointed, before continuing on his way.

“Where are we going?” Pippin asks, once he catches up again.

“The library.” Gandalf says gruffly. “If Faramir is not here, his books will have to suffice.”

“Faramir is Boromir’s brother, right?” Pippin says, as if he isn’t sure, as if he doesn’t remember a dozen stories and little details about the man from conversations with Boromir. Gandalf nods. “And why isn’t he here?”

“Because he’s in Osgiliath.” Gandalf explains tiredly.

“And where is that?”

Gandalf stops walking with another heavy sigh, turning to face the east. He reaches out a long arm and points towards the dark outline of a city that looks moments from being swallowed by the oncoming storm.

_“That_ is Osgiliath.”

Pippin feels his heart sink into his stomach.

\---

The next morning, climbing the high tower of Gondor’s beacon, Pippin thinks again of Boromir. He thinks of the way the man spoke of home, of the beauty of the White City, of the hope he had for Gondor. And when he looks down and feels his stomach turn at how far he would fall if he slipped, Pippin promises himself that he will not fail his friend’s memory, that Boromir’s home will not fall on his watch.

He clenches his teeth and finds the strength to climb on.

When the flames light he feels a surge of warmth, of hope, even pride. For a brief moment he can almost feel Boromir beside him, can almost see the smile on the man’s face, reassuring him that he has done well. Although Pippin has never spoken of it, not even to Merry, his dearest held memory of Boromir has always been the way he made Pippin feel that he could be of use for more than a joke or a song.

The beacon starts to catch fire in earnest, and he has to scramble quickly back down to avoid becoming part of it.

When he reaches Gandalf again, the wizard is staring fixedly at the distance, watching for something.

He hears Gandalf whisper a name he doesn’t recognise, and then that name is echoing all around him, a cry spreading throughout the city.

“Amon Din! Amon Din!”

The next beacon is lit. Help is coming. Gondor has hope again.

But Pippin is looking in a different direction entirely, his eyes fixed on Osgiliath, now fully shrouded in the storm that expands from Mordor. There are fires burning in that city too, but the sight of them fills him with dread rather than hope.

And then he sees the creatures, their great leathery wings stretching wide as they hang in the air, diving down to tear chunks from the crumbling stone towers. Even from miles away he can hear their shrill shrieks, and the sound freezes him in place where he stands.

“G-Gandalf…” He manages in a hoarse whisper, then louder, “Gandalf!”

The wizard turns.

“The-the city!” Pippin stammers, raising an arm to point. “They’re being attacked! That-- That’s where--”

Gandalf whistles sharply and with a clattering of hooves his white horse appears as if out of thin air. Pippin feels himself being hoisted onto it’s back and quickly tangles his fingers in the white mane. Gandalf whispers something to the creature that Pippin cannot understand, and they take off towards the city entrance faster than flying.

Even so, by the time they leave the gates, Pippin can make out the forms of men on horseback fleeing, massive shadows with wings hot on their heels. He swallows harshly, and as the light bursts forth from Gandalf’s staff, shielding the remaining soldiers, Pippin prays that Boromir’s brother is still among them.

\---

As the men retreat behind the safety of their city gates, Pippin hears a voice call for Gandalf. There is something familiar in the sound, and for an agonizing few moments he wonders and hopes, before Gandalf fully turns the horse, and Pippin sees him.

In sharp contrast to Denethor, Faramir looks so much like Boromir that it hurts. His face is younger, if no less worn, but his nose, his brow, the set of his jaw, all closely resemble his brother. And, like Denethor, he has the same grey eyes, though his are softer, kinder even than Boromir’s were, the look in them a question rather than a demand. And yet there is a steel to his gaze that Pippin recognizes from Boromir, a sense of duty and a determination to do right. 

But even if they didn’t look so alike, Pippin thinks he would have known instinctively that this is Boromir’s brother. The man spoke of Faramir more to Merry, but Pippin overheard enough of their conversations, and the man he sees before him now is everything Boromir said he was.

He doesn’t have the natural air of authority that men like Boromir and Aragorn seem to carry with them everywhere, but there is something in him, a hope that refuses to be broken. Boromir called it ‘an endurance of the spirit,’ and Pippin finds that he cannot disagree. Looking at him now, Pippin can’t help but think that this is a man who could stare down Sauron himself and refuse to despair. No wonder Boromir held such love and respect for him.

Currently, however, the full intensity of Faramir’s gaze is trained on Pippin, and the young hobbit finds himself suddenly unable to meet the man’s eyes.

Boromir talked often of his desire to return home, to his city, to his people, but most of all to his brother. And now, because of what he sacrificed for two halflings, he never will. How can Pippin look this man in the face when he knows he is the reason Faramir will never again be comforted by his brother’s smile?

He almost misses what Gandalf says next.

“This is not the first halfling to have crossed your path.”

Pippin looks up enough to see Faramir nod, and his heart fills with more hope than he has felt in months as he realizes what this means.

“You’ve seen Frodo and Sam?”

Another nod, but Faramir’s face turns solemn as he delivers news of the ring bearer's path. The names of these places mean nothing to Pippin, but he feels Gandalf sit up straighter on the horse behind him, and knows they are nothing good.

The wizard hurries all three of them back towards the library where he and Pippin spent the previous day, sitting Faramir down and urging him to begin his tale.

Pippin hangs back in a corner, watching Faramir speak, eager for news of Frodo and Sam. He does his best to listen closely, but there is so much of it that he doesn’t understand, names of places and people and factions, and he can’t help being overwhelmed by his memories instead.

He is back with the Fellowship, lying in one of the many camps they made along their journey, pretending to sleep as he listens to Boromir and Merry talk.

“The way you care for him reminds me of my brother and I.” Boromir says softly. He sighs, then after a long pause continues, “I fear for him in these dark times. Faramir never wanted to be a soldier, but circumstances have forced him to become one.”

“What did he want to be?” Merry asks quietly.

Boromir chuckles.

“When he was a boy? A dragon slayer. He would spend hours imagining himself a great hero, even shirking his lessons in favor of the worlds he’d made in his own mind.”

Merry snorts.

“He _does_ sound like Pippin.”

“Indeed.” Boromir agrees, laughter still in his voice. “But in truth, I think my brother was meant to be a scholar. He was always smarter than I was, wiser too. I… I try not to think of what will happen if we fail, but…”

He falls silent for long enough that Pippin feels himself starting to actually drift off, until Merry quietly prompts,

“But?”

“But I…” Boromir sighs again. “I suppose it’s selfish of me, but more than the fall of my people and my kingdom, more even than the end of the race of men, the thought of my brother’s death haunts my mind.” There is another long pause, and when Boromir speaks again, he sounds close to tears. “In my sleep I am tormented by images of him, ragged and bloody, felled by the armies of Mordor, or tortured into insanity and despair… He-- I-It cannot come to pass. He is still so young, kind, he deserves so much more from the world than what it has given him. That is why I cannot fail. If I fail our quest, I fail him.”

There is silence, and then Merry speaks in a voice he has used on Pippin so many times, tone somehow both soothing and firm.

“You won’t fail.”

The memory fades, but the words still echo in Pippin’s mind as he watches Faramir’s face, seeing Boromir in every line and feature. Boromir didn’t lie, the man is young. Pippin still isn’t quite certain how to tell the ages of men, but Faramir is certainly younger than Aragorn or Boromir himself, perhaps even younger than Eomer of Rohan, who by Hobbit standards is barely old enough to be considered grown.

He cannot let this man die.

More than anything else in the world, Boromir cared for his brother, and Pippin promises himself he will do the same in his friend’s absence. He couldn’t save Boromir, but he will make sure that he does not fail.

The door swings open with a bang, startling all three people in the room.

A messenger stands there, slightly out of breath, and bows before delivering his news.

“Captain Faramir, Lord Denethor has requested your presence immediately.”

Pippin turns to look at Faramir, and for a moment he sees fear in the man’s eyes, before his expression smooths over into resignation. He carries with him the same sadness as his father and brother, and as he stands and leaves the room, it seems to settle all the more heavily upon his shoulders.

In that moment, watching the man depart as if he is walking to the gallows, Pippin swears to himself that he will protect Faramir, Captain of Gondor, with his life.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extended version of the extended edition scene that happens before Pippin's induction into the guard, plus the induction scene itself, from the perspective of both characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for all of the canon dialogue/not much original dialogue in this chapter, but I felt like these scenes were really important to the story and it felt weird to include them will the dialogue cut out.

The next time Pippin sees Faramir is early the next morning, as he sits outside the throne room, waiting to be inducted into the city guard and scolding himself for the foolishness of his offer to Denethor.

“It was well done.”

The voice startles him and he looks up for the source. For the briefest of moments, he thinks he is looking at Boromir, somehow here to offer him comfort, but of course that can’t be. It is the man’s brother, though his expression mirrors one of Boromir’s as he continues,

“Generous deeds should not be checked with cold council.”

Pippin looks up at the man, feeling ridiculous yet again, although this time for a promise made privately to himself the previous day. How can he protect Faramir as Boromir would have done? He is no great warrior. In fact, he is no warrior at all. The sword they have given him is for a child, yet it still feels too heavy in his hand to wield properly.

“I didn’t think they would find any livery that would fit me.” He says, unable to completely disguise the bitterness in his voice.

Faramir studies him thoughtfully for a moment.

“It once belonged to a young boy of the city. A very foolish one, who wasted many hours slaying dragons, instead of attending to his studies.”

“This was yours?”

“Yes, it was mine.” Faramir reaches out to adjust a strap on one of Pippin’s shoulders. Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but he can’t help but interpret the contact as a gesture of comfort. “My father had it made for me.”

Pippin may not be useful for much, but at least he can offer support the only way he knows how, even if it’s only momentary distraction.

“Well, I’m taller than you were then, though I’m not likely to grow anymore, except sideways.”

Faramir laughs, and it transforms his face. For a moment the care vanishes, his eyes losing their sadness as they light up with mirth.

‘My brother has had so little joy, of late.’ He remembers Boromir saying. ‘If we return successful, I wish more than anything to see him smile again.’

“It never fitted me either.” Faramir says, bringing Pippin back to the present. As he speaks, his woe seems to settle slowly back over him, all the more apparent now that Pippin has seen what he looks like without it. “Boromir was always the soldier. They were so alike, he and my father. Proud, stubborn even. But strong.”

Pippin’s heart aches as he sees his own self-doubt reflected in the man’s eyes. Faramir does not think of himself as strong, and there is no doubt in Pippin’s mind that Denethor is to blame.

He closes his eyes for a moment and remembers Boromir’s hands on his shoulders, the man somehow managing to look down at him without making him feel small.

‘You have strength of a different kind, little one. And we will have need of it before the end.’

He realizes now that in that moment Boromir was speaking as much to Faramir as to him. He takes a deep breath.

“I think you do have strength, of a different kind. And one day your father will see it.”

A thousand emotions play across Faramir’s face in one instant, and when he smiles it’s completely different from moments ago. Pippin thinks it may be the saddest look he has ever seen on another person’s face. When he speaks, his voice is tight.

“You sound like Boromir.”

“I think that’s what he would have said.” Pippin answers softly. “If he could be here.”

Faramir’s brow furrows, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. For a moment, Pippin is afraid the man is going to cry, but when he opens his eyes again, there are no tears.

“You knew my brother well?”

Pippin nods, taking a few seconds to swallow the lump in his throat before he can speak.

“My kinsman and I spent much of our journey with him. And in the end, he… he saved us.”

For a long moment Pippin is afraid to look up at Faramir, but when he finally does, he sees none of the anger he feared would be in the man’s eyes. 

Instead, there is something almost like hope.

“So he…?” Faramir begins, and Pippin has spent enough time in the world of men to understand the unfinished question.

“He was protecting us. He fought bravely, and felled many of our foes. He could not have died more honorably.”

Faramir closes his eyes, letting out a long, deep breath.

The sound of a throat being cleared startles both of them, and Pippin turns to see a man standing at the door to the throne room.

“Lord Denethor is ready to see you.”

Pippin looks back at Faramir just in time to see the man’s features fix themselves into a pale mask. He inclines his head slightly, before looking at Pippin expectantly.

Pippin stares back for a few long seconds before realizing it is _him_ that Denethor has summoned at this moment.

“Uh— Right.” He turns back around, squaring his shoulders, before taking a deep breath and stepping forward towards the open door. As he passes into the throne room, he feels the brief, comforting touch of a gentle hand on his shoulder, before Faramir stops to stand a respectful distance from the proceedings, while Pippin continues forward.

Denethor welcomes him with a smile completely devoid of warmth, and despite Faramir’s words of encouragement, Pippin cannot shake the feeling that he is making a terrible mistake.

He has practiced the oath of office what feels like a hundred times, but he still stumbles over the words when he looks up at the face of the man he is binding himself to.

The Steward’s smile when Pippin has finished makes his skin crawl, but he forces himself to kiss the offered ring, forces himself not to flinch away from the hand that cups his chin, the eyes that appraise him like a piece of livestock. He reminds himself that he is doing this for Boromir. He will do what little he can to protect the things Boromir cared about, his home, his brother, even if doing so means swearing an oath that he already regrets.

He regrets it all the more when Denethor’s gaze turns to his son, his eyes cold and the word ‘vengeance’ on his lips.

Faramir does not seem surprised by this, his expression dispassionate even as his own father implies him to be inadequate, a disappointment.

He remembers Boromir saying that Denethor was too hard on his younger son, but if their relationship was anything like this when Boromir left, Pippin can’t help but think that is a terrible understatement.

Denethor looks at his son with a challenge in his eyes as he continues.

“Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his Lord’s will?”

Appalled, Pippin turns to look at Faramir, sees the man’s eyes flick to him for the briefest of moments before returning to his father. He is not sure exactly what he sees in that second of contact, but he knows it frightens him.

“You wish now that our places had been exchanged.” Faramir says hollowly. “That I had died and Boromir had lived.”

Pippin feels a shiver run down his spine. Surely that can’t be true. Surely even Denethor cannot stoop so low as to wish death upon his own child. But deep down he knows what is coming, just as Faramir does.

“Yes. I wish that.”

And Pippin feels the floor fall away beneath him as he watches Faramir’s heart break before his very eyes.

He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, just a strange sort of rushing sound as if he’s standing under a waterfall, but he doesn’t really need to hear it. Pippin knows what is happening. He knows Faramir is signing his life away, and even worse, he knows that Denethor does not care.

He wants to scream. He wants to run after Faramir, to hang on the man’s arm and beg and plead until he changes his mind. But he can’t. He can do nothing now, just as he could do nothing for Boromir, just as he stood helpless and watched the arrows pierce his friend’s body, watched the pain on his face as the life slowly left him.

For the second time in his life, Peregrin Took feels utterly helpless, and it is a pain deeper than anything else he has ever experienced.

\---

Faramir looks at the young hobbit Gandalf has brought with him, and he sees a boy-- no, a man, who knew Boromir in his last days. It is hard not to think of the hobbits as children at first glance, but Frodo and Sam were no boys, and although this knew arrival, Pippin, is clearly younger, he is not a child either.

And yet it is his childish quality that makes Faramir suspect that Boromir was close with him. Boromir was always a protector, a teacher, a brother. He was drawn to those who felt vulnerable, who were afraid or sought guidance. Faramir saw it hundreds of times with the younger soldiers, even felt it himself as a boy. He feels conceited for thinking so, but he knows Boromir would have been drawn to Pippin, because he sees something of himself in the hobbit’s eyes.

Perhaps that is part of why he is so quick to encourage Pippin when he overhears the younger man scolding himself over his decision to join the guard, although his words are also born out of genuine admiration for what the halfling has done.

He wonders if Boromir would have approved of Pippin’s choice. At another time, perhaps, but now, with their father gone half mad and near-certain destruction looming on the horizon, now, he isn’t sure.

Still, it will not help the young hobbit to know that, so instead he tells Pippin the story behind the armor he is wearing, and surprises himself by laughing genuinely at the response. He quickly sobers, however, remembering the truth behind their laughter.

“It never fitted me either. Boromir was always the soldier. They were so alike, he and my father. Proud, stubborn even. But strong.”

He doesn’t expect the sad, thoughtful expression that Pippin gives him, nor does he expect the little hobbit’s response.

“I think you do have strength, of a different kind. And one day your father will see it.”

Faramir’s heart aches.

How many times has he heard those words, almost exactly, from his own brother’s mouth? With Boromir gone, he hadn’t thought he was likely to hear them again, and yet here they are, as if his brother is speaking to him from beyond the grave.

“You sound like Boromir.” He manages, forcing a smile, and again the response surprises him.

How can Pippin know such a thing? How can he be so sure?

Faramir realizes he has closed his eyes and forces them open again, forces himself to breath as he finds the courage to ask the question that has been on his mind since he first laid eyes on this hobbit.

“You knew my brother well?”

The answer is more or less what he expects, until Pippin speaks the words that echo so loudly in his head he can hear nothing else.

“...he saved us.”

Faramir’s eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat as it hits him all at once that he is looking at the person who witnessed his brother’s death. At the person, apparently, whom his brother died to protect. Although he wishes Boromir weren’t taken from him so soon, he cannot think of a more fitting death for his brother.

He has been afraid to admit it, even to himself, but Faramir has feared for his brother ever since he spoke to Sam in Ithilien. The insinuation that desire for the Ring had caused Boromir’s death shook him deeply, and even now, especially now, he has to ask, has to be sure…

“So he…?”

“He was protecting us. He fought bravely, and felled many of our foes. He could not have died more honorably.”

Faramir feels relief wash over him. Sam was wrong. Boromir was still himself at the end.

He nearly jumps at the sound of an attendant clearing his throat, and quickly tries to regain his composure as he follows Pippin into the throne room. He rests a hand momentarily on the young hobbit’s shoulder, wanting at least to offer him something in return for the one small bit of peace he now feels.

Still he can’t help but feel a sense of increasing dread as he watches Pippin swear the oath, a sense that only increases once the Steward’s attention turns to him.

He has weathered this displeasure before, but it still stings, especially because Faramir knows it is true. Boromir would not have lost Osgiliath. Boromir should have been here. Boromir should be here.

If only he had gone to Rivendell in place of his brother, if only he had died instead. It is in that moment that he realizes the truth, and as deeply as it hurts he cannot deny it. He knows in his heart that that is precisely what Denethor wants, and he cannot blame him.

He looks at Pippin for a brief moment, and he sees a man in whom Boromir saw something worth fighting for, even dying for.

“You wish now that our places had been exchanged.” He says, and it is not a question. “That I had died and Boromir had lived.”

He expects the confirmation, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling as though someone has driven an iron spike into his heart.

“Since you were robbed of Boromir,” He manages finally, “I will do what I can in his stead.” And he means it. Means it in more ways than his father will ever know.

He doesn’t look at Pippin again as he turns away, but he does think of him. Thinks of him because doing what Boromir would have done means riding out, means trying to retake Osgiliath, but it means other things as well.

He has his duty to his father, to his city, to his people, but there is something else too. He has a duty to his brother, to protect the things and people that Boromir saw worthy of being protected. That has always included lord and land, but now it also includes the life of this small stranger. He will not let his brother’s death be in vain. He will defend Peregrin Took of the Shire with his life.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be the last full chapter, although I will probably add an epilogue at some point as well. It will probably be a lot shorter than the other chapters though. That said, thank you so much for reading and I hope I was able to do the story justice.

When Pippin was younger, barely into his teens and therefore still a child to hobbit eyes, his sisters made a game of gathering around the hearth at night and challenging each other to tell the scariest stories they knew. Which by extension, meant challenging Pippin to listen to said stories. They never said as much, but Pippin always knew that if he asked them to stop, or declined to sit with them during this activity, they would tease him relentlessly for his fear.

This tradition resulted in an uncounted number of sleepless nights for the little hobbit, his head filled with all manner of gruesome tales. But the worst, the one that frightened him the most, that stuck with him the longest, had been the tale of a man being buried alive.

Night after night he laid awake, shivering with fear, imagining that should he fall asleep, he would awake to find himself surrounded by darkness, unable to move. On some nights he thought he could almost feel the encroaching walls of the coffin close in around him, the weight of six feet of earth above him, the ever increasing pressure in his chest as slowly, ever so agonizingly slowly, he used the last of his air, and suffocated to death.

Now, sitting in Denethor’s throne room, that feeling is back, stronger than it’s been in years. The high stone walls are pressing inward, his breath feels too shallow, and there is a weight on his chest like a heavy stone resting there.

Pippin is trapped and helpless. He can do nothing but wait for the news of Faramir’s death.

He sings at Denethor’s request, his heart aching with every word, although it doesn’t seem to bother the Steward one bit. When his voice breaks and dies out, the silence that follows feels all the more deafening.

It’s hard to tell how much time has passed, but it feels like years, ages even, before a man comes running into the room.

“M-My Lord Denethor, I— It’s Captain Faramir, he—“

Denethor stands from his seat immediately, his heavy garments billowing around him as he strides to the door. Although he has not been asked to follow, Pippin is quick behind.

His heart stops when they emerge into the courtyard to see Faramir’s body carried on a stretcher by several guards.

 _No._ Pippin thinks desperately, almost a prayer. _Please, no. Not again._

Denethor seems similarly horrified, the gasp that escapes him sounding as if he has been physically struck.

His expression is anguished, grief stricken, but instead of sympathy, Pippin feels white hot anger boil in the pit of his stomach. 

_Now_ Denethor cares? Now that it’s _too late?_

Pippin runs to the body, kneeling down beside Faramir as Denethor wanders away across the courtyard, raving about an end to the line of Stewards.

“Faramir…” Pippin begins, so softly that it’s barely audible. But what can he say?

‘I’m sorry’ won’t do any good now. Faramir is dead. Pippin has broken his promise.

He has failed.

The grief is so consuming that it is a long moment before he registers the barely perceptible rise and fall of the chest underneath his hand.  
Pippin feels his heart skip a beat.

The breaths are small, far too shallow, but they’re there. Pippin places two fingers under the hinge of Faramir’s jaw, and feels the faint flutter of a pulse.

“He’s alive! He needs medicine, My Lord!”

But Denethor isn’t listening. He is standing at the wall where Gandalf and Pippin stood only the day before, staring out over the city, and the Pelennor Fields beyond.

Pippin tries to call to him again, before he realizes what it is that has Denethor so enraptured.

He cannot see what the Steward is seeing, but he can hear it. The chanting of tens of thousands of voices, a roar of sound that sinks into his bones and makes his blood run cold. The armies of Mordor are at the gate.

And Denethor is telling his soldiers to flee.

A surge of conflicting emotions rushes through Pippin. Panic first. Denethor is right, hope is lost, there is nothing they can do against the assembled host-- Then, anger and defiance. They can’t give up now. Not now, after everything that has been sacrificed, after Boromir gave his life, after Faramir very nearly did the same.

Gandalf is there, striking Denethor across the face with his staff, bringing the man to his knees, then to the ground, where he lays, unconscious, unable to do more harm for the moment.

“Prepare for battle.” Gandalf booms, his voice filled with steely determination, and Pippin feels the same conviction settle in his heart.  
They can’t just run, not when those they love and trust have given everything to bring them to this moment. It has to be worth it. They have to make it worth it, or Boromir and countless others will have died in vain.

And so Pippin charges along with the others, prepared to fulfill the oath he has sworn. He may be just a hobbit, but now he is also a soldier, a guardian of this city, and he will not see it fall while he could do something to stop it.

\---

The streets of Minas Tirith are chaos, crowded with confused and terrified people. Pieces of the city are crumbling, bricks crashing onto the cobblestone. Between his much shorter stride and the interference of the Nazgul, Pippin quickly becomes separated from the other soldiers.

When he finally reaches the city’s lower level, the first thing he sees is Gandalf, who rounds on him almost immediately, telling him to turn back, not to join the fight.

But that isn’t right. He’s supposed to be here. He has a purpose in this moment. He has never felt more certain of anything in his life.

Orcs are pouring onto the wall, and behind Gandalf, Pippin’s focus is pulled suddenly to one in particular. It’s heading right for him. This is the moment. He has to fight. Has to defend himself. Why is his body frozen? Why has his heart seized up with terror? It’s getting closer. It’s almost on him. He should draw his sword, he should--

Gandalf leaps in front of him, dispatching the creature with his sword in one hand and staff in the other. He turns, and on his face is a look Pippin knows well. A look that says he’s being foolish, causing trouble both for himself and for the wizard.

More orcs come rushing forward, and this is nothing at all like the attack on Isengard, nothing like standing on Treebeard’s shoulder, throwing stones and stabbing any orc that manages to climb. This is pure, raw violence, with no order, no room to think or to breathe.

And then he sees it. An orc, ax raised, headed straight for Gandalf. But Gandalf is fighting another creature, his back is turned, he doesn’t see it coming--

The ice in Pippin’s blood turns to fire, and he feels himself draw his sword without thinking, lunging forward, and the blade is buried in the stomach of the orc, who freezes, ax inches from Gandalf's neck.

Gandalf swings around, stopping short when he sees the orc. Pippin cannot see his face, but when he turns, he’s wearing an expression the young hobbit can’t quite identify.

“Guard of the citadel indeed.” He says, a touch of pride in his voice that Pippin has never heard before. Or at least, he’s never heard it directed at him. “Now back, up the hill. Quickly!”

For the briefest of moments, Pippin wants to protest. Hasn’t he just proven that he can be of use, that he has a purpose? But then he remembers Faramir, lying in the courtyard, barely clinging to life, and he understands.

He does have a purpose, but for the moment, it isn’t here.

Pippin nods, turning and running back up the stairs, up into the chaos of fleeing civilians and charging soldiers. This is how he can repay Boromir’s sacrifice. By using the life Pippin owes him to protect the thing Boromir treasured above all else.

\---

From the courtyard, Pippin follows the strange procession of guards with Denethor at it’s head, carrying Faramir aloft. At first, he doesn’t understand. What are they doing? Why isn’t anyone running to fetch medicine, or a healer?

All too soon it becomes clear that they are heading for a tomb, and Pippin feels his heart clench. How can Denethor be so blind? And how can the rest of these men simply go along with it? Surely Pippin can’t be the only one who has noticed the man is still breathing. How can they not realize that they’re burying their Captain alive?

But when Pippin enters the room where Denethor and his soldiers are preparing funeral rites, he doesn’t see a coffin, or any other signs of an attempt at burial. For a fraction of a second, he feels relieved, before he registers what it is that he _is_ seeing.

Denethor stands atop a dais in the center of the room, and all around him his men are piling wood, dousing it in oil. As Pippin watches with dawning horror, they lift Faramir’s body and place it atop the pyre at Denethor’s feet.

Pippin rushes forward without time to think, grabbing one of the large bundles of sticks and trying to tug it away from the dais.

“He’s not dead!” He screams, “He’s not dead!”

He has little hope now that Denethor will really even hear him, let alone listen, but surely these other men don’t share their lord’s madness. Surely at least one of them will think long enough to at least question, to make absolutely certain that they are not about to kill all that remains of their leadership.

But Pippin might as well not be there for all the effect his words have. The men continue on as if in a trance, not seeming even to notice his presence.

With a murderous expression on his face, Denethor climbs down off of the pyre, grabbing Pippin by the collar and bodily dragging him towards the door. Pippin struggles with all his strength, but he is outmatched.

“He’s not dead!” He cries out again, desperate, pleading for someone to listen, to stop this insanity, but it does no good.

Denethor casts Pippin onto the stone floor and slams the heavy door in his face.

Pippin feels a surge of despair, of self hatred, but it is quickly replaced by fierce, furious determination. He’s not giving up. Not this time.

He doesn’t recall standing up, yet he’s on his feet and running, faster than he’s ever run before. Back down through the city, past terrified civilians and wounded soldiers, calling Gandalf’s name into the crowd. 

For a long, terrifying few moments, it seems the wizard is nowhere to be found. Then he sees a flash of white through the dark armor of the soldiers around him, hears a booming voice issuing commands.

When Pippin tells him what is happening, Gandalf’s eyes widen, his already grim expression becoming even darker. But he doesn’t hesitate, reaching down to grab Pippin’s arm and pull him up onto the horse. They race through the city, up and up the winding paths in what seems like no time at all, and Pippin has never been more grateful for Shadowfax’s supernatural speed.

The great iron doors formed an impenetrable barrier for Pippin alone, but Shadowfax rears back and brings his hooves down on the seam, bursting them open.

And not a moment too soon, it seems, for they are greeted by the sight of torch-bearing guards gathered around the pyre, seconds away from setting it ablaze. Gandalf calls to Denethor, perhaps trying one last time to reason with him, but it falls on deaf ears. 

The Steward snatches a torch from one of the guards and drops it onto the pyre.

Like the beacon Pippin lit barely even a day ago, the oil-soaked wood goes up almost instantly. Gandalf charges Shadowfax forwards, knocking Denethor back, but leaving Faramir among the flames that are quickly dancing closer and closer to his body.

No. It can’t end this way. It won’t.

He stood by when they killed Boromir, stood by when Denethor sent Faramir to his death, but not once more. He will fight until his last breath is spent before he lets another friend be taken away while he stands by.

Only the day before, he promised himself he would defend Faramir with his life, and now he’s going to do just that.

Pippin jumps from Shadowfax’s back into the flames.

The heat is instantly suffocating and painful, but he barely feels it over the pounding of his heart as he desperately shoves with all his strength at the body of the man next to him, and finally manages to push Faramir off of the pyre, away from the flames, to safety. 

He jumps after him, heedless of the pain in his own fingers as he frantically smothers the fire that clings to Faramir’s garments.

Distantly, he hears Denethor shouting, roaring, but doesn’t register the words, doesn’t register the man’s movements, until he is once again lifted from the ground by his collar and dragged away from Faramir, back towards the now-blazing pyre.

With another strike of Shadowfax’s hooves, Denethor is knocked back and Pippin is free. He stares in horror at the man, now surrounded by flames, and for the first time ever, sees clarity, even hope, in the Steward’s expression. Following his gaze, Pippin turns to see that Faramir has roused, managing to open his eyes, and is looking at his father. He’s alive, and for the first time in hours, the older man seems to see it.

And then Pippin hears Denethor scream. A terrible, agonized sound as the oil covering his heavy garments catches fire, and all at once he is engulfed in flames.

For all his fury at the man, for all that he’s found himself wanting to see Denethor punished for what he’s done, Pippin can’t bring himself to feel anything but pity and horror as he watches the Last Steward of Gondor pass from this world.


	4. Epilogue

The guards who nearly set Faramir aflame help Pippin carry their captain to the Houses of Healing, but Pippin can’t stay there with him forever. 

There is still a battle to be fought, although he can’t claim to be able to remember much of it later. 

He knows that at some point the armies of Rohan arrive, and then another army, a legion of ghosts led by Aragorn. After that, things are over fairly quickly.

The next thing clear in Pippin’s mind is helping comb the fields for wounded, and feeling his heart stop when he sees a familiar face among them.

Merry is pale and bruised, dried blood caked at one corner of his mouth. He doesn’t seem to be concious, and for a brief moment Pippin feels as though the world has fallen out from under him.

Then Merry stirs. He can barely raise his head, clearly in pain, but he’s alive. Alive, and no one is going to take him away. No one is going to hurt him ever again.

Pippin holds him tightly, reassuring him, promising to stay with him, promising to care for him. Merry looks so small, so frightened, in a way Pippin has never seen him look before. And yet the trust in his eyes when he looks at his cousin’s face is unwavering and absolute.

He tries to be comforting despite the tears in his eyes, stroking Merry’s hair the way his oldest sister used to when he was a child. He’s always been the youngest, the smallest, the one in need of looking after. And that looking after has nearly always been done by his favorite cousin. He’s lost track of the number of times he’s gotten himself into scrapes and been comforted by the thought, 'I’ll be alright. Merry will come for me.'

He never would have guessed Merry might feel the same way about him.

All of his life, no matter what happened, Pippin has always had Merry. But now that they’ve found each other again, things are different. Now they have each other.

\---

Pippin hardly leaves Merry’s side over the next few days. True to his word he cares for his cousin, lending an extra set of hands to the healers whenever he can, holding Merry’s hand while the surgeons dress his wounds, comforting him when he wakes from nightmares of the battle.

Merry improves rapidly, and is on his feet far quicker than the healers expected, walking first with Pippin’s help and then without it, gaining strength all the time.

One morning as the two of them talk in the garden, Pippin feels a gentle touch on his shoulder, and turns to see Aragorn standing behind him. 

He is dressed plainly, hair pulled back and expression calm and kind, here as a healer rather than as a leader of the world of men.

“Faramir is awake.” He says with a small smile. “I thought you’d want to know.”

Pippin immediately turns to Merry, an apology already on his lips, but Merry shakes his head.

“It’s okay.” He says, a look of understanding in his eyes. "Go."

“Thank you.” Pippin says earnestly, then again, to Aragorn, “Thank you.”

And then he turns and rushes from the garden, leaving his two former companions in each other’s company.

\---

When Pippin enters the room, Faramir is sitting up in his bed, back against the headboard. He looks… well, not exactly good, but far better than he did the last time Pippin saw him. More than anything, he looks tired.

Nevertheless he smiles at Pippin, who comes over to sit next to the bed.

“They tell me that you saved my life.” Faramir’s voice is low and soft, and he sounds as exhausted as he looks.

Pippin ducks his head.

“I…”

Factually, he supposes it’s true, but it isn’t what he feels, what he remembers most about the battle. What he remembers is the fear he felt coming down the stone steps into the courtyard, the despair, the utter hopelessness that consumed him at the sight of Faramir’s apparently lifeless body.

In the end, he did what he promised, but he came so close to failure. Even now, even knowing it's over and Faramir is alive, he can’t completely quell the voice in the back of his mind telling him that he should have done something differently. That he did something wrong. That he isn’t worthy of the man’s praise.

“What is it?” Faramir asks.

“I’m sorry.” Pippin says, tears welling up in his eyes. He intends to apologize for his odd reaction, but as he takes a breath his chest tightens and entirely different words start to come out in a rush. “I let you go. I let him send you away. I shouldn’t have-- I’m sorry I didn’t stop it, I didn’t--”

“You couldn’t have stopped it.” Faramir cuts Pippin off, but his tone is gentle. “And it wasn’t your responsibility to. It happened the way it did because of things that began long before you were here.”

“Still…” Pippin says quietly, “I wanted to protect you, and I almost failed.”

“That’s funny.” Faramir says, and he actually does sound faintly amused. “Here I thought I was protecting you.”

“You did?” Pippin frowns. “Weren’t you doing it to protect your people?”

“Of course.” Faramir agrees. “And you among them. Boromir used to say that wanting to save the world was all well and good, but in the heat of battle, it’s too abstract a goal. He’d tell his men to focus on one person, on protecting them, on staying alive for them, on winning the day so that they could go on living. With someone to hold on to, to fight for, you could face anything. So in that moment, I knew I was fighting to save my city, my people, but the person I was holding on to was you.”

“But why?”

Faramir smiles softly at him.

“My brother died so that you could live. How could I claim to honor him if I didn’t protect the things he thought were worth protecting?”

Pippin can’t help but laugh a little, even as tears start to run down his cheeks.

“I… I was thinking the same thing about you, in a way. Boromir talked about you a lot, you know. He died protecting me and Merry, but… What you said about having one person to hold on to, someone you’re fighting for… That was you, for him. Always. He wanted to win this war for you, so that you could live in the world that came after. I couldn’t bring him back, but I could make sure that his dream of you living to see a better world didn’t die with him.”

When Pippin finishes speaking, there are tears in Faramir’s eyes too, but he’s still smiling.

“I can see why Boromir cared for you. You have a good heart. Better than most. I think he’d be proud of you.”

Pippin dries his eyes on his sleeve and smiles back.

“I think he’d be proud of both of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue was my most heavily rewritten section of the story, so I hope it still makes sense and is a satisfying conclusion. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading! This story was so much fun to write and I hope it was fun to read as well!


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